Slow
by E. H. Redlum
Summary: Note: This is a sequel to the story "Fix You," please give that a look first to avoid confusion! Mysteries about John's survival and recovery are revealed as he makes some strange discoveries about his feelings, as well as a few about the new number the machine has fed them. Finch/Grace Reese/Carter (That's right, I've done it.)
1. Chapter 1

"Good morning, Mr. Reese," Harold said after a sip of tea, sensing a presence enter the room.

"Finch," John spoke – his usual curt reply.

"We have a new number," Finch said, trying to use a somewhat uplifting tone even though there was really nothing pleasant within his statement.

"Anything interesting?" John asked somewhat nonchalantly, taking off his jacket.

"Not particularly," Harold answered, picking up a photo to pin on the wall.

"Peter Alger," he pointed after tacking it up, "age 34, janitor. His face, you'll note," Finch gestured again, "has been disfigured, as has most of his body. He was involved in an obscure accident a few years ago – I'm having difficulty finding much about it. Based on the fact he graduated from Princeton, however, we can assume it left him quite handicapped."

"Rough luck," John said, moving closer to study the picture, "must have been a bad accident."

"It would certainly appear so," Harold said as he limped back to his computer.

_Accident._

That word, and several others, had been circling his mind since Mr. Reese's slight "accident" on the pier three weeks before. Harold supposed there was nothing very accidental about it, aside from the fact he had accidentally instructed John to do it – with no knowledge he would actually almost kill himself, of course. Even though weeks had passed John was still being entirely elusive about how he had escaped a watery death, and how he had recovered from whatever happened so quickly. Harold had wanted to pry, but he knew it wasn't his place. John would share when he was ready. Finch could wait.

Waiting wasn't too much to ask when he knew the sacrifice John had made had been entirely for him. Then again, perhaps in the end it hadn't been. When it came down to it, John did what he did as much for Grace as for him – the two had really clicked. Harold rather liked it. He had John, the closest thing he'd come to a friend since Nathan, who he could count on without a doubt. He had Grace, the only woman he'd ever loved, who he could sit and laugh with again. He had the comfort of knowing the two closest to him shared a friendship, and that if anything should happen to him they had each other. He had it better than he had in a long, long time.

_But what did John have?_

Harold had been fruitlessly searching the man's eyes since his return, hoping to figure out which emotion was hiding behind them. He couldn't break that solid façade that John used to shield himself, though. Not without explicit allowance on the masked man's part.

"Where do you suggest I start the surveillance?" John questioned.

"I haven't quite determined that yet, I'm working on it; he seems to be a very reclusive man," Harold responded as he furrowed his brow and typed like a man possessed.

"I bet you two would really hit it off," John jested in his dry tone.

"Private people tend not to 'hit it off' with other private people, Mr. Reese," Finch responded with an inkling of a smile.

"How's Grace adjusting?" John asked after a slight pause.

"She's doing well, all things considered," Harold said as he squinted at the monitor, "I think she's quickly discovering both the ups and downs of being dead. I'll admit it's been somewhat challenging explaining to her what we do, she doesn't seem altogether convinced that you and I can't die again."

"I thought I was going to die, Harold," John said as casually as if he was speaking about the weather.

Ceasing his typing, Harold turned to face his ever-courageous coworker.

"The pier?" Harold asked quietly.

"Yes," John said with a nod, "I wasn't planning on coming back. Then I hit the water and the windshield shattered – and I knew I couldn't just sit there and die – so I fought. I remember making my way out, cutting myself a few times, but once I got into the water it was like a blackout. There are bits and pieces, I sort of remember swimming, but most of it is gone."

"That's not altogether surprising," Harold said with a slight nod, "both the physical and mental trauma would explain it. Why did you do it, though, John?" Harold asked with genuine grief in his voice, "there were other ways we could have handled it – ways that avoided you dying."

John shrugged off the question. If he wasn't ready to answer then Harold wouldn't meddle. Instead, he sat quietly and waited as Reese pondered what to say next.

"It was Carter," he finally continued.

"What do you mean?" Finch asked, perplexed.

"She came back for me," John said slowly, "she pulled me off the bank where I washed up and took me with her."

"But…" Finch began, thinking hard about where Carter had been. After bringing Grace to her apartment she must have gone to look for John immediately.

_Why hadn't she told him?_

"I don't know, either," John said as if he could read Harold's mind, "there are a lot of things I don't really know."

"Have you spoken to her about it?" Harold asked.

"No," John said with a shake of the head, "I haven't really spoken to her at all since I've been back. She kept me with her for nearly a week, and then it was like it never even happened."

Finch watched as John's brow wrinkled, and he let his own follow suit.

"Finch," John continued suddenly, looking into Harold's eyes, "please don't ask her about it."

"I wouldn't dream of it, Mr. Reese," Finch said sincerely, "I believe what happened is for you to sort out – I'm just happy you've divulged this much after three weeks of silence," Finch said with a small smirk.

The corners of John's mouth turned up ever so slightly as Harold heard his computer whir, and turned to examine his screen. Smiling with a familiar satisfaction, he struck a few keys and got out a pen. Ripping a small piece of paper off a pad, he jotted down an address for Mr. Reese.

"The apartment of one Mr. Peter Alger," he announced as he handed his partner the paper.

"Nicely done, Finch," John said as he rose, moving to get his jacket, "tell Grace I say hello."

With that, the tall man went striding out of Harold's sight.


	2. Chapter 2

Stifling a yawn, John idled on a bench outside of Mr. Alger's apartment building.

It was in a nicer part of the city, surprisingly. There were pigeons flocking on a sidewalk around him, and he could smell the bay even though it was out of sight. Sighing, he propped an arm on top of the bench and rested his face against it. Peter was taking so long to make an appearance John had half considered breaking in, but he didn't want to risk it until he knew more.

"Mind if I take a seat?" a low voice to his right slowly said.

Swinging his head, John struggled to keep a poker face as he looked into Peter Alger's tired eyes.

"Not at all," he said calmly, sliding over.

"Thanks," Peter said as he awkwardly eased himself into a sitting position.

John observed as the man began to eat an apple in his hand, his hands shaking violently.

"What brings you to this part of town?" Peter asked as he began to take a bite.

"I'm supposed to be meeting a friend," John answered, "you?"

"I live in that building," he pointed a crooked finger at the apartment complex.

_Easily trusting. Maybe not as secretive as Harold thought._

"It's nice here," John casually observed, "pretty."

"Yes," Peter agreed, "I like being close to the bay. I grew up next to an ocean."

Listening to Peter's apple squelch and crunch between oddly pristine teeth, John made a few mental notes about his appearance. He was an average height even with the disabilities that left him hunched, although his hair was prematurely graying and he shook like an elderly man. Smartly dressed in a striped polo with beige slacks, the man didn't immediately strike him as the average janitor. In fact, he doubted the man's mind had slipped as far as Finch had implied.

"What kind of work are you in?" John asked.

"I'm a gymnast," he answered steadily.

"Oh?" John said, raising an eyebrow on impulse.

"Just a joke," Peter reassured him, cracking something close to a smile, "I received a big inheritance when my father passed, I don't have a set job," he paused to chomp on his apple, "I've tried to become well rounded, I like to bounce from occupation to occupation – I'm currently a janitor, perhaps not the best way to use my education."

John allowed a small smile to slip onto his face.

_If only all the numbers spilled their life stories during surveillance. _

"I do a lot of private consultant work," John lied, "although bouncing from job to job certainly sounds more interesting."

"Yes, well," Peter turned a shaky arm to check his watch, "I should probably head inside. It was nice talking to you Mr…"

"Mr. Chase," John finished for him, "likewise, Mr…"

"Mr. Nichols," Peter said as he pushed himself off the bench with a grunt, "perhaps we'll meet again, Mr. Chase."

_On second thought, maybe he was a bit secretive._

"Perhaps we will," John said, perplexed, as he watched the man drag his bum leg to the building.

"Well this is an interesting development," Finch chirped in John's ear after Peter had departed.

"You could say that," John agreed.

"I suppose I should start digging up information to see how many aliases Mr. Alger possesses," Finch sighed, "and maybe you should check with one of the detectives to see if they have anything."

"You think he's a lawbreaker?" Reese questioned with some surprise.

"No, not necessarily," Harold continued, "I just think it would be wise to browse police reports. Our friends on the inside could have information about his accident that's much easier to obtain than via my methods."

"Right," John said as he rose from the bench, "I'll get on that."

Hanging up the phone, he was dialing Carter within the second. She answered on the second ring, and he grinned at the reluctance he could hear in her voice.

"What is it this time?" she asked in a low tone.

"I've decided to assassinate the president," he said sinisterly, "would you be willing to discuss it over lunch?"

"Usual place?" she asked without hesitation.

"Twenty minutes?" he responded.

"I'll see you there," she said briskly before hanging up.

It didn't take John long to get to the little café - quite removed from the city's chaos - that he was beginning to love. Ordering a coffee as he settled into a booth to await Carter's arrival, the aromas of fresh pastries danced around his nostrils.

_He had awoken to the smell of pancakes the morning – or maybe night, he couldn't be sure – after the accident at the pier. When his eyes first opened a crack he had panicked. He had no clue where he was, why he was there, or how he got there. So, naturally, he attempted to sit straight up. That proved to be a horrible mistake._

_Pain had rocketed through his sides, abdomen, shoulders, back, head, and even his legs instantly. After letting out a horrible groan and squeezing his eyes shut as hard as he could, he tried to organize his thoughts. He remembered driving off the pier. He almost remembered escaping the wreck. He barely remembered being found. He couldn't remember how he ended up on a couch in a place that smelled like pancakes._

"_John?" a familiar voice had asked with concern._

_Shifting his eyes a bit, he had seen Carter approaching from across the room. She had put her hands on his shoulders gently, causing no pain even though they ached. After forcing him to lie back down, she covered him with a blanket he had apparently knocked off his body._

_John had begun to ask her what he was doing on her couch, but when he opened his mouth he found his throat was too dry to form words. Picking up a glass of water resting on a coffee table, she tucked a hand behind his head and placed the cup to his lips, helping him take a drink. Most of the water ended up spilling on his face and down his chin, and he was relatively embarrassed to be accepting such intimate help from the detective, but all things considered he had decided to deal with it. She was just being amiable._

"_What am I doing here?" he had finally croaked after she set down the glass._

"_You drove off a pier," she had said dryly, glaring at him a little._

"_I hope you aren't insinuating I'm dead," he had answered as he closed his eyes._

"_No, fortunately," she had thrown an exhale in with her statement._

"_You found me?" he had asked, opening his eyes a crack._

"_Yes."_

"_Thank you," he had said as he relaxed a tad, letting his eyelids slide shut once again._

"You look deep in thought," Carter said – interrupting his reminiscing – as she slid into the booth across from him.

"I was," John answered, nodding his head a bit.

"Tough case?"

"Maybe," he said, "we aren't exactly sure what we're dealing with. We were hoping you could dig up some information on a man who goes by the name of Peter Alger, primarily. He was involved in some sort of accident a few years ago if that's of any help."

"Peter Alger who was in an accident a few years ago," she said with a brow raised, "sounds simple enough."

"They always do at first," John sighed as he sipped his coffee.

"Then everything goes to hell," Carter said, nodding in agreement, "is that all you needed me to do?"

"Yes," John said slowly, "assuming you won't go another three weeks without acknowledging my existence."

"There was nothing to acknowledge, you didn't need my help," she shrugged, "that's how our arrangement works. You call when you need me."

"I know, but I thought after –"

"I don't really want to talk about that, John," she said plainly, "I think we'd both be better off pretending I never rescued you. God knows you would have pulled through somehow on your own anyway."

With that, Carter left as quickly as she had arrived. John had turned to watch her leave, hoping the spite behind her words wasn't heartfelt.

"I wouldn't have, though," he said quietly to himself after a moment, finishing his coffee.


	3. Chapter 3

**I would like to add my first author's note to thank everyone for the large amount of support in relation to this story (and so early on)! After only two chapters I have about half the reviews I gained in eleven chapters on the prequel, which is quite a feat, and I have no one to thank but the readers. A special shout out to "ItsAboutTime," whose comment I can't respond to: I am honored to have received your first comment, and I will certainly try to keep these coming fast!**

"You should really consider lightening things up in here, Harold," Grace said as she looked around the dark library, "it's far too somber."

"A somber place for somber deeds," Harold responded a bit more grimly than he intended, "plus, the books are enough décor for me."

"It's good you're the only one who spends an excessive amount of time here, then," she said a little scathingly.

"Because I have to," he answered defensively, frowning.

He did feel bad about not spending any time in Grace's apartment with her. She understood – or, at least he hoped she understood – why he was forced to spend so much time in seclusion. Nevertheless, she had, in a sense, just died and probably deserved more help adjusting than he was providing.

"Relax, Harold," she said reassuringly, brushing a hand on his shoulder as she passed him, "I know."

Exhaling in relief, Finch hobbled along his usual path to the computers. He felt he could limp it in his sleep he made the short walk so often. It was nice having Grace around to break the monotony while John was away saving lives – as he was most of the time. At first he had continued to keep his work a secret from her, but that had quickly become difficult.

_It had been three in the morning when he finally stumbled through her apartment door, keeping as quiet as a sleep-deprived person could. It hadn't mattered, though, she had woken up. Unless she had already been awake._

"_Harold?" she had mumbled as she emerged from the bedroom, catching him before his coat was off all of the way._

"_Grace," he said softly, "go back to sleep – I'll be right there."_

"_No," she had answered firmly, moving closer to him, "I'm worried about you, Harold."_

"_I'm fine, I just had work to do," he had said reassuringly, even though there was no clearly convincing her._

"_What kind of work?" she asked with concern._

_She placed the back of her hand on his cheek, searching his eyes. Harold had kept secrets for years, he knew how to hide his thoughts, but he felt like she was reading them. It was as if all of his defenses crumbled at her touch, and he didn't know whether to be afraid or elated. He put a hand on top of hers and drew it away from his face, maintaining his silence._

"_I know that something's wrong, Harold," she had spoken kindly, "why won't you talk to me about it?"_

"_Because it's a secret I've kept for a long time," he said, "one that could put you in danger."_

"_More danger than I've already been in?" she asked with a small smile._

"_More danger than anyone should be in," he had answered sadly, "including Mr. Reese."_

"_Is that part of it? You're worried about John, and blaming yourself," she said, staring until he leveled his eyes to hers, "it wasn't your fault, if anything it was mine."_

"_No, it wasn't," he said resolutely, "but I've put John in danger since the moment I met him. The way we found you, and knew you were going to be in danger – well, this isn't going to sound logical – but that's what we do. We get tips, sort of, that people are going to be involved in a crime, and we – well, I – I'm not sure how to explain best," he said, looking at the ground with frustration, "I guess we –"_

_He broke off mid-sentence as her lips met his, then she pulled him into an embrace and pressed her face lightly against his, propping her chin on his shoulder._

"_You don't have to explain it all yet," she said quietly, "I just want you to know you can trust me-"_

"_I do!" he interrupted a bit too enthusiastically, bringing a smile to her face._

"_And that you can explain your miracle process when you're less tired and frustrated," she paused before continuing, "and John will be back soon, Harold."_

"_I know," Harold sighed as she kissed his cheek._

Now, she went to the library with him quite frequently. He hadn't explained everything to her, of course – she had no clue how the machine functioned, or where the numbers came from - she just knew the basics. She seemed to have some indication he hadn't told her quite everything, but she accepted it. He loved her for that easy acceptance – primarily that of him.

"This is the guy?" she asked as she looked at Peter's picture, compassion in her eyes.

"That's him," Harold answered as he picked up his phone, "Mr. Reese spoke to detective Carter about digging up some information on him; I'm going to check in and see if she has anything."

The phone rang a few times, but Carter answered as diligently as usual. Based on her tone she was somewhat irked about the task she had been put up to, but Finch had come to expect that.

"This boy of yours seems to like flying under the radar," she began, and he could hear papers rustling in her hands, "the only mention of Peter Alger in any of my files is in a footnote on an accident report that's been completely blacked out . The date is January 12th 2011, but it seems like that and the footnote were accidentally attached. Whoever did this did it in a hurry, and had one hell of a mysterious motive."

"Well," Finch said, feeling a bit defeated as he jotted down the date, "at least we have a date. That's something. Thank you, detective. Did Mr. Reese happen to tell you his plans when you met with him? He isn't answering his phone."

"No, he didn't," she answered curtly.

Sensing the hostility developing in her voice, Finch decided against pushing the subject.

"I'm sure he'll turn up soon, then," he finished, "it was nice talking to you, as always, detective. Send detective Fusco my regards."

The definite click of a phone hanging up indicated she hadn't really appreciated his attempt at a lighthearted goodbye. He couldn't help but wonder if her disgruntlement was somehow linked to John – it wouldn't be the first time.

"Not much help?" Grace asked after he hung up.

"No, not really," he answered, "we have a date, but that's about it. Maybe with enough digging online I can uncover what Peter got wrapped up in."

Firing up some search engines, Harold felt Grace's comfortable presence move behind him. The sharp intake of breath from her was quiet, but not low enough to dodge Finch's ears. He turned to face her, bewildered at the wide eyes staring a bit beyond his seat.

"What?" he looked around for what may have startled her, "what is it?"

"Don't you see?" she asked with confusion.

"See what?"

"This date," she said softly, "Harold – it's the day that you died."


	4. Chapter 4

"Any developments?" Reese asked as he walked briskly into the library.

Left somewhat flustered after his lunch with Carter, he hadn't accomplished much during the day. He had craftily gotten close enough to Mr. Alger to sync his cell after foolishly forgetting to do so during their meeting, but the man seemed not to use the basic flip phone much. So, preoccupied with the day's frustrations, he almost didn't notice Grace when he walked in.

"Hello, John," she said politely,

He took note that her usual easy smile appeared forced, and worry flickered in her eyes. Turning his eyes toward his coworker, he could almost see the anger radiating off of him.

"Everything alright, Finch?" Reese asked hesitantly.

"Just dandy, Mr. Reese," he said dryly without turning his face from his monitors.

Moving closer, John noticed that only one screen was lit up, and all it contained was a picture of Peter Alger. Perplexed, he wasn't entirely sure what to say. Finch was more visibly disturbed than Reese had ever seen him.

"I received some interesting news from detective Carter earlier," Finch continued in the even tone he seemingly struggled to maintain, "a bit about Mr. Alger's accident."

"Yes?" John asked, urging him to continue.

"It would appear Mr. Alger became horribly disfigured on the same day I faked my death – the day I became somewhat disfigured as well."

Finch ceased talking and pursed his lips, furrowing his brow at Mr. Alger's picture.

"And I'm going to assume you don't think this is a coincidence?" John said, rubbing a hand across his chin.

"No, I don't," Harold said with anger, "I may even have proof that it isn't. I followed a hunch and did some more digging into records – some that most people wouldn't have access to – and found Mr. Alger's original place of employment."

"Which was?" Reese pressed.

"IFT," Harold said, making eye contact with John for the first time.

John felt his mouth slip open a little, taken aback by Harold's statement. Peter's accident being coincidental had roughly the same chance as a snowball in hell, but that didn't mean John had any understanding of how he was connected.

_He didn't even know what Harold's accident was._

"I have some business to take care of," Finch said as he rose, quickly turning his back and exiting the room.

Grace let out a monumental sigh as soon as he was out of earshot, and John looked at her sympathetically.

"I guess you don't know what business that might be?" he asked.

"No," she answered, "but I'm worried about him, John. When he noticed the date, it was like, I don't know – he became a whole different person."

John nodded with understanding. Grace was much closer to Harold than he was, but that didn't mean the man wasn't still a mystery.

"Do you know the details of his accident, Grace?"

Normally, he wouldn't encroach upon their privacy, but he had to ask her.

"Not everything," she said with honesty, "but I know it involved cars. I tried to ask him once and that's all I could really get out of him. He did say it was the same accident that killed his business partner."

"Nathan," John mumbled, thinking.

"Yes, that was his name," Grace confirmed as she remembered, talking to herself more than John, "Harold seemed so distant when he was talking about it."

"I wish I knew more," John shook his head with frustration.

"Be careful what you wish for," Grace said sadly, "I'm afraid we might not want to know."

John nodded at her, but he knew he needed to know. He needed to know why his partner was so distant and pained. He needed to know why Peter Alger's number was up, especially if there was some connection to Finch again. He needed to know a lot of things.

"Are _you_ ok, John?" Grace asked kindly, placing a hand on his arm.

"Just overwhelmed," Reese answered with a half-smile, admiring Grace's aptitude to determine when something was wrong.

_Then again, something was almost always wrong._

"You? Overwhelmed?" she jested, "I don't see how that's possible."

John gave her a small smile, then became sober again.

"Have you ever felt like you've made a mistake so large nothing can fix it?" John asked.

He felt strange sharing his feelings with Grace, but it was so easy. Harold understood computers. John understood guns. Grace understood people.

"Maybe once or twice, why?" she asked in return, tilting her head a little.

"I just think I may have made one too many in this lifetime," he answered grimly, frowning.

"_You know," Carter had said, "you don't have to shovel that down like you haven't eaten in three weeks."_

_John stopped ravishing his soup long enough to give her a grin._

"_It feels like I haven't eaten in four – it's not my fault you won't give me substantial food."_

"_Just be grateful for your soup," she said, smirking at him, "I'm not going to give you 'real' food until you can handle it. You throw up on my couch and I'm putting you on the street."_

"_I could probably handle that street better than your cooking," he teased, receiving a shove on the shoulder as she passed by._

_Her cooking was, in fact, very good – he would never admit that, of course. After a day and a half or so of teetering in and out of consciousness, John was regaining his strength and composure. Granted, he hadn't actually tried walking and could barely sit up, but he was eating. He considered it an achievement – plus, he liked the couch too much to move anyway._

_As he was placing his empty bowl on Carter's coffee table, she had reentered the room._

"_I'm going to change those bandages on your forehead, and the ones on your side," she said, medical supplies in hand._

_Most of the scrapes on his body had been left alone, or covered in small bandages, but Carter must have sealed the two larger gashes with heavy duty bandages immediately after finding him. Her concern for him drew his admiration, and curiosity, to no end._

_She took a seat next to him and began with his forehead. He winced a little during the process, but it didn't actually hurt too badly. The worst part, he began to notice, was being able to feel her breath on his neck. Carter was an attractive woman – he had always known that – but he had never been so damn close to her._

"_Let me help you get your shirt off," she said, breaking him out of a trance, as she finished her work on his head._

"_No," he stopped her, "I've got it."_

_Pulling his t-shirt off with the little dignity and strength he had left, he wondered where the t-shirt had even come from. Had she bought him a new one? Maybe he would ask sometime._

"_This is probably going to sting quite a bit," she warned him as she slung one of his arms over her back to get it out of her way._

_John watched as she delicately removed his old bandage, enjoying having his arm around her shoulders. He had never noticed how small she was – her personality made up for physical demeanor. Feeling his gash begin to burn as she cleaned it, he tightened his grip around her. He suspected she knew he didn't truly need support throughout the minor process, which made it all the more surprising when she pressed further into his arm – comforting him with the return of pressure._

_She aligned the new bandages with both her hands, pressing down the ends. One of her hands began to slide along it to smooth it out, but her other found his abdomen to lean on for support. John felt his breath catch in his throat a bit. Her hand was soft and cool against his solid core, and for the first time in a long time he felt a burning desire in his stomach. The location of the feeling was so close to her hand he feared she might feel it, that it might singe her skin, but he kept his poker face. She had been smoothing the bandage for far too long now, and when he risked a look he noticed her eyes weren't particularly focused on anything. And then, if he wasn't mistaken, the hand on his abdomen was moving now – sliding every-so-slightly lower down his abs –_

_He let out a groan, somewhat involuntarily, that he hoped she mistook for one of pain._

"_Sorry!" she exclaimed, pulling away too quickly, "that should do it."_

_He watched her quickly rise from the couch to discard the old bandages, taking note of the surprise in her voice. And that breathless tone._

_Had she felt something too?_


	5. Chapter 5

_He drove slowly, and deliberately._

_There was no conversation in the car, but the silence was comfortable. It was a silence between minds too consumed to verbalize anything. A silence between partners – friends._

_He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel and thought hard about the numbers, and the choices. His conscience was eating away at him day after day, as was his partner. Had he done what was right? Had he unleashed a demon or a guardian angel?_

_Yawning, he pulled to a stop at a red light. It was pitch black outside, darker than most parts of the city, but they had a remote business meeting to attend and were already well into the outskirts. As the light flicked to green he put his foot lightly on the gas, pulling forward._

"_Why do you think they're calling us out here?" Nathan asked._

_Turning his head to face his friend, Harold felt his mouth drop open. Beyond his partner's face, through the passenger's side window, two piercing headlights came at them. He knew the lights were moving fast, but to him it felt like painful slow motion. No words escaped his lips, though. He just gaped in awe, stared in disbelief, until impact happened. Impact, and the horrible shooting pains, and the cries of unbridled terror, and the black nothingness._

Harold sat straight up in bed, shaking in a t-shirt and boxers sticky from sweat. Groping for his glasses on his nightstand, he swung his legs off the bed, ignoring discomfort, and limped quickly from the room. Typically he would be more careful not to disturb Grace when he rose, but he was so flustered he just hoped for the best.

Moving to the fridge, he removed a pitcher of water and awkwardly sloshed some into a glass. His hands were still shaking and his eyes were opened wider than normal, as if fully absorbing the reality surrounding him could shove the vivid memories out of his mind.

Pulling out a chair, he flopped down at the small kitchen table near the fridge. He set the glass in front of him and stared at it intensely. Tears were burning to escape his eyes, and he was struggling to regulate his breathing. It wasn't the first time he had had the nightmare. More than anything he wished it was only a dream.

"Harold?" he heard Grace ask from behind him, "are you ok?"

"I'm fine," he answered guiltily, sorry he had woken her.

"You look pale," she said as she approached, "are you sure?"

"I'm sure," he attested, putting on his best poker face.

Scraping a chair along the floor – behavior Harold only tolerated from her – and pulling it next to his, she put a hand on his shoulder as she sat down.

"Why can't you just be honest with me?" she asked.

"Honesty is a very tricky thing," he said with a grimace, "I've always found it's best used in moderation, similar to how the average person might use, say, alcohol."

Grace sighed and removed her hand from his shoulder, placing it in her lap. He missed its presence immediately, and regretted his inability to be candid with her.

"I had a nightmare," he continued, being frank this time, "but it was more of a memory."

"It has something to do with this man John's monitoring, doesn't it?"

"It might," he answered, "for a long time I thought the accident I was in was a matter of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, but this man, well, he could be a whole new piece to the puzzle."

"This accident, that's the nightmare?" she said with sympathy.

"Yes," he said, averting his eyes from hers, "it is."

She returned her hand to the shoulder, deflating some of the pressure holed up inside him. He became aware that he had a pounding headache, and that his back was absolutely throbbing.

"I'm going to get my pain medication-" Harold said as he began to excuse himself from Grace's presence.

"No," she cut him off firmly, "I'll get it."

Before he could protest, she was on her feet and returning with a pill bottle. He wanted to scorn her for doing it for him, but he could only look at her with appreciation as she smiled. Popping the top of the container and dumping two small white tablets into his hand, he threw them into his mouth and took a long swig of water. His throat felt dryer than his entire body, and he drained the whole glass long after the pills had vanished.

"You know, Nathan, my business partner, once told me that if I ever found someone he would never hear the end of it. But I never told him about you, even though he was my best friend. I should have told him – I kept so many secrets from him. I thought I was doing what I did to protect you, and him, but maybe I was just doing it for myself. Maybe I've always done it because I've never been able to trust anyone like I trust myself, or you. All it did was get him killed."

"Harold, that's not-"

"No, it is true," Harold said resolutely, even though he felt like falling apart, "I could have warned him. The machine told me he was in danger. Even if I couldn't have saved him, I could have at least trusted him more. I could have let him in, shared everything I knew and everything I was. I never realized how hard it would be to have that possibility taken away."

He pressed a hand into his temple, fighting back the urge to cry. Grace had wrapped one of her little hands around his and was rubbing her thumb back and forth over it, probably trying to figure out how to continue.

"Maybe you can't let Nathan in anymore," she said softly, "but there's someone new that you can."

"John?" he asked, understanding who was being implied.

"Tell him about the accident, Harold. Tell him about me, and your company, and Nathan, and anything you can think of. Talk to him like you talk to me, help him understand what he has to do."

"I wish I could," he said softly.

"Why can't you?"

"Because talking to other people isn't like talking to you," he said with a sigh.

She laughed a little, running her fingers through the back of his short hair.

"I think if you give it a try you'll find it isn't that much different," she said as she kissed his cheek.

"Well I certainly hope it's a _little_ different," he said, raising an eyebrow.

She chuckled again, placing her head on his shoulder as he put his arm around her gratefully.

"I guess maybe it will be a little different. John understands people better than he pretends to, though. So do you."

"If this man is connected in the way I'm suspecting, if he's the reason Nathan is dead, I'm afraid John may never understand me again," Harold said, his words caustic.

Grace frowned a little, but Harold didn't elaborate. He couldn't have told her what he was feeling even if he wanted to.

Peter Alger could turn out to be a horrible coincidence. He could be a harmless citizen in danger. Peter Alger could be the reason Nathan was dead, though. He could be the reason Harold suffered eternal pain in his spine, too guilty about Nathan's death to seek real medical assistance for it. He could be the reason Harold had been ripped away from Grace, forced into the shadows. He could be the reason everything fell apart.

And if he was, Harold would do anything to see him dead.

"Why don't you come back to bed and try to get some sleep?" Grace said, interrupting his dark brooding.

He nodded in agreement and allowed her to take his hand and lead him to their bedroom. Once there he didn't protest as she peeled off his sweaty shirt and gave him a new one, which he pulled over his head. He also didn't protest when she wrapped her arms around him, and just held him for a few moments, as if she was afraid he would disappear.

She had been doing that every so often since his return, and he loved it. He loved being able to reassure her he was there, and to feel her silent reassurance as well. He loved sleeping with her, but it was in an altogether platonic sense.

In fact, they hadn't actually slept together in a sexual way since his return. It was as if neither of them dared disturb the harmony they had been blessed with again – the simple satisfaction of being close to each other. He supposed the longing to move passed that stage had crossed his mind once or twice, and probably hers too, but there was a certain reluctance between them. With his injury and so much time spent apart they both knew things had changed somewhat, and he didn't want to feel awkward rushing into that part of their relationship again. So, they had formed a silent agreement to wait until they were both ready. And until then, they were happy.

As they climbed into bed and she curled up against him, putting her head on his chest, he felt that happiness. And he felt happy he wouldn't relive his nightmare again with her so close. However, as he stared up at the dark ceiling, he felt a fear even Grace couldn't eradicate. He was afraid of what he needed to tell John, and afraid of the information he may dig up, and afraid that he was digging too far. Mostly, though, he was afraid for Peter Alger.


	6. Chapter 6

**Note: When I wrote the prequel to this I noted that the date it happened wasn't extremely important, but in this chapter it becomes rather clear that it is pre-Finch's abduction…not planned in the original, but not detrimental in any way. Thanks for the continued support!**

"Good morning, Mr. Reese," Harold said as he entered the library later than usual, not looking particularly rested.

"Morning, Harold," John responded with a bit of a sidetracked tone.

"How would you feel about dining out this morning?"

"What?" John asked, caught off guard.

"You heard me," Harold said, gesturing to the door, "it's a lovely day for a walk, regardless."

John cocked an eyebrow, taken aback by his partner's sudden willingness to go stroll around outside. Usually, when there was a number in question, he couldn't get Harold to leave the library unless there was an emergency.

"Alright," he said as he warily got to his feet, passing Harold at the door and heading outside.

He walked slowly alongside the smaller man as they made their way to the usual diner they visited. Harold was acting completely out of character, not to mention tense, and John couldn't wrap his mind around the cause of their excursion. He was having a hard time focusing as it was, he didn't need any more disruptions when he knew so little about Mr. Alger.

"I have some information for you."

Finch didn't talk until they were seated at a booth, breakfast laid out in front of them. John was growing antsy, but he didn't want to be pushy, so he waited with hungry ears to devour Finch's 'information.'

"This file contains all the material I've gathered on Peter Alger," Finch began as he pulled a manila folder out of his carrying case, "and I'm quite positive I've determined who he really is. It has to do with my past life, Mr. Reese. It seems our numbers have a tendency to do so, lately."

John felt a twinge of sympathy for the worn down man he faced. Finch had had a rough time divulging anything when Grace was their number, and Reese imagined what he was about to hear was no different.

_At least he didn't drive off a pier._

"In early 2011, as you know, I was involved in an accident that left me handicapped and my business partner dead. I recall you finding a picture of him as you were snooping through my possessions once, but that's rather irrelevant at the moment. What seems to be relevant, however, is Mr. Alger."

Finch paused to withdraw some documents from the folder, scanning them momentarily.

"Peter Alger was employed at IFT in early 2010, but there are no prior records of him in the company, who hired him, or even an application. It's as if a person was suddenly created out of thin air, but of course that can't happen, so I did some more digging. In 2010 Mr. Alger would have been 32, and according to the records we have he attended Princeton University – so he would have graduated in either 1999 or 2000, thinking logically. After a considerable hassle I found this," he withdrew a photo and slid it to John, "the photo of one Mr. Kevin Nichols."

"Mr. Nichols," John mumbled as he looked at the photo. The man seemed young and full of life, with a head of black hair and shining blue eyes.

"Correct, the exact alias Mr. Alger gave you, which may not be an alias at all. You see, Mr. Nichols here fell completely off the grid after leaving Princeton – he seems to have changed his name multiple times and even completely obliterated it once or twice. So, in 2010 Mr. Nichols, under the name Alger, is employed at IFT without much money to his name. The sole reason he's hired is because he's a wanderer, a modern mercenary. So, naturally, when some member of our shadow government offers him a considerable sum of money to make an accident happen, he risks his causeless life for the profit. It explains the supposed inheritance he explained to you – Mr. Nichols' father was never even in the grotesque picture of his life, from what I can find."

John took a moment to process what Finch had said, folding his hands under his chin.

"That's some fine detective work, Finch, but aside from some dates that seem to be more than coincidental, isn't it all speculation?"

"It was," Finch conceded, "until yesterday."

Finch removed another picture from the file and slid it to Reese. John looked at it, nodding due to its familiarity.

"I took this yesterday," he shrugged a little, "who is it?"

The photo featured Mr. Alger shaking hands with a blonde haired woman. She had appeared literally out of nowhere while John had been observing him, and had disappeared just as quickly. He hadn't been within earshot of their conversation, but it had been brief – aside from giving Finch the photo to analyze he hadn't thought much of it.

"Her name," Finch said with a sigh, "is Alicia Corwin. She was one of the few who knew about the machine – she arranged its transportation and the final deal made when we handed it over to the government."

John was silent. The man it appeared they were supposed to protect was a killer, a traitor, and a greedy coward. Worst of all, he was the root of Harold's pain – his redeemer's pain.

_His friend's pain._

"I'm sorry, Harold," John said quietly.

"I'm only telling you because I want to know the truth, as it happened – to see him brought to justice," Harold said with a curt nod, looking at his hands.

"Good thing that falls under my skill set," John said, getting to his feet and smoothing his suit.

"What do you plan on doing?" Harold said, looking up at him curiously.

"I'm going to stop beating around the bush," he answered, turning and walking from the restaurant with conviction.

_He had walked with that same conviction from the couch._

_It was the only way he could walk with his injuries – it was the best way to hide the pain. Even though he often yearned to let out a groan, he held back. The last thing he needed was Carter shoving him into forced respite. Sometimes Taylor was around, too, and he felt as if he shouldn't show weakness in front of the boy._

"_You know, if you would give me a chance, I could take the food out of the kitchen instead of you clambering in like you aren't hurt," she had said with disdain as he shuffled into the small pantry._

"_Well where would the fun be in that?" he said with a smirk, invading her space as she chopped up tomatoes._

"_Do you mind?" she asked with a pointed glance._

"_What?" he asked innocently, grabbing a tomato, "I thought I would give you a hand."_

_Sighing, she handed him a knife._

"_I would tell you to be careful, but I get the feeling you've used one of those before."_

"_Once or twice," John said with a smile as he went to work._

_Cutting up vegetables wasn't usually his scene, but the rhythm was comforting. He watched Carter's deft hands slice and dice without hesitation, sending the knife up and down and left and right as easily as a kitchen pro. He was enraptured by the simple task, admiring how well it fit every other aspect of her life – her calm precision, methodic thinking, commendable efficiency._

"_Dammit!" he swore a bit too loudly as his knife grazed his finger, and he cursed himself for breaking Carter's rhythm._

"_Are you alright?" she said with clear concern, taking his hand before he could pull it away._

"_I'm fine-"_

"_John, I thought you were good with knives," she was mumbling, interrupting him before he could continue and pulling him by the hand to her medicine cabinet._

"_It's really not-"_

"_Oh, shut up," she said as she withdrew a Band-Aid and held his hand close to her._

_He smiled as she began to bandage it, and was reminded of the size of the heart that accompanied her rational methods._

"_How's that?" she asked as she finished, backing away._

"_It's great," John said, snickering a little at the way she was looking at him._

"_What – ouch! Dammit!" she exclaimed as she backed up too quickly, knocking her head against the cabinet she had forgotten was open behind her._

_His hand was around the back of her head immediately, cradling her into him as naturally as anything._

"_Are you alright?" he asked, trying to examine the back of her head._

"_I'm ok," she said, smoothing her hair a little._

_As she looked up into his eyes, only a few inches away from hers, she let a laugh escape her mouth. It was a beautiful laugh – a real one, not the usual snigger he got from her. He still had a hand wrapped around her head, and he felt his reflexes take over before he was sure what was happening._

_Tilting downward, he suddenly forced his mouth to meet hers, closing his eyes. He felt her hesitation as she pulled away briefly, but then the muscles in her shoulders and neck relaxed. Her face twisted to compliment his, and he slid another hand around her waist. Soft hands ran along the back of his neck as she pressed against him, and he squeezed her closer. His mouth closed over hers more roughly, and he had to fight the urge to grin as she responded to the powerful kiss. Letting his hands explore, he rubbed her neck and back, sliding his fingers underneath the bottom of her shirt. When she broke the kiss for air and pressed her face into his shoulder, he kissed her cheek until he reached her ear, allowing his palms to wander over her stomach._

"_John," she said in his ear, her voice a bit labored._

"_John," she said again after he didn't answer, "John we can't."_

_Her voice was firmer, and he felt her body tense as if reality had suddenly hit her. She covered his hands with her own, removing them from her body and backing away._

"_Why can't we?" he said angrily, looking at her with scorn._

_She glanced at his eyes but quickly looked away, not able to handle the disdain she saw in them._

"_I'm sorry, John – I just…" she struggled to continue._

"_You what? You can house the killer because you're guilty you got him shot, you can lead him on, but you can't let it get too far?" _

_John knew he was being irrational, but he couldn't hold back; he was too livid._

"_Be realistic, John," she said spitefully, glaring at him now, "you know that isn't true."_

"_What is it then, detective? Explain it to me," John said, getting close so that he towered above her._

"_I don't have to explain myself to you, John," she said maliciously, turning her back on him._

"_Fine," he said, laughing meanly, "that's just fine." _

John felt the bile in his throat as he arrived outside of Peter Alger's apartment door. The spite he had been harboring since his fight with Carter was boiling over, begging to be released. Pounding on the door with urgency, he tried to slow his angry breathing as Peter swung the entry open.

Appearing altogether unfazed by the gun John withdrew and pointed directly at his face, Peter raised an eyebrow.

"And how are you today?" he asked casually.

"I'm fine," John said, shoving Peter farther into his apartment and swinging the door shut behind them, "I'm just fine."


	7. Chapter 7

"Finch," John's voice rasped into his ear piece, "I've encountered a bit of a problem."

Harold could tell John was breathing heavy, and wondered what exactly a 'problem' might entail.

"What sort of problem, Mr. Reese?"

"Irrelevant at the moment," he ceased talking for a few seconds and Finch could hear rummaging noises, "I'm gonna need a little help on this one, Harold."

"What would you like me to do? And where are you?"

After leaving their breakfast abruptly, John had shut off his phone – and in doing so, cut all contact with Harold. Finch had grown rather used to that, but it usually ended in a distinct 'problem.'

"I'm in Peter Alger's apartment – I need you to call Carter and send her the address to get here. You have to get back to the library, there are some incredibly, uh, urgent things to discuss that will probably require your presence there. I also need someone to come get Mr. Alger in a car – do you think Grace would be up for it?"

Frozen to where he stood on a sidewalk, Harold made a mental note to not let his mouth gape open when taken aback. People were giving him strange looks, but he was too caught up in the 'problem' to care much.

"Have you _lost your mind_, Mr. Reese?"

"You asked me why I drove off that pier when I damn well knew I might die, and I didn't give you an answer – but I am right now. I did it because you saved me; you gave me a new shot at life. I knew that if I died and left you with Grace I could give you that same opportunity – I could give you something to get away from the numbers and the chaos. I could give my only friend the chance to be happy again, really happy, and give her back what she lost too. I walked into Peter's apartment ready to kill him, Finch, but not anymore. If you never listen to me again that's fine, but you need to trust me now. We need to get him out of here, fast, and preferably to somewhere as safe as Grace's apartment. I wouldn't ask either of you to do this if it wasn't paramount, but we're losing time."

"Where should I tell her to meet you?" Harold asked so quietly it was almost inaudible.

"Tell her to park a few blocks south of his building – I'll find her."

With that, their conversation ended. Harold stayed in the same position for a few more seconds before beginning a shaky walk. He didn't know what to process first. Was he more baffled by John's act of selflessness or the urgency in his voice? Should he thank him or scold him? Were they about to rescue a murderer or an innocent man?

Shaking his head as he mumbled to himself, he tapped a few keys on his phone.

"What now?" Carter answered his call with disgruntlement.

"I'm about to send you an address, it's of the utmost importance that you get there as fast as possible-"

"You know," she interrupted, "I do have something called a job. A _real_ job."

"John is in trouble, he didn't elaborate what kind of trouble, but it seemed to be something he didn't trust Fusco doing – I'm sorry to spring this upon you, detective, but –"

"It's fine," she said with a sigh, "just send me the address."

"Nobody says goodbye anymore," he mumbled to himself as he texted the address after she abruptly hung up.

Taking a deep breath, he dialed Grace's number next.

"Hello," she answered jovially.

"Grace," he said, struggling to control his quivering voice, "I have to ask you to do something very important for me."

"Alright," she said attentively, "what's happened?"

"I'm not sure, but I need you to take my car to a street address I send you. John is going to deliver a, uh, a man to your car that you have to take to your apartment. If anything suspicious happens I want you to get out of there – no matter what John says – and make sure you leave your phone on at all times, and please –"

"Harold, calm down, I'll be fine. Just send the address and I'll go get this man – if John is putting him in the car, he can't be too dangerous. Actually, he might not even be conscious. And, Harold – it's _our_ apartment, not my apartment."

"Thank you, and _be careful_," he said with some relief.

"I will – love you," she said, and he could hear the smile in her voice.

"I love you too," he answered, some of his fear fading.

"Bye, I'll see you soon," she said before hanging up the phone.

_Maybe a few people still said goodbye._

Texting Grace an address a few blocks south of the building John was in, as requested, Harold began to limp back toward the library. His heart was pounding and his mind was racing.

What could John have discovered that made saving Peter so important?


	8. Chapter 8

**This is getting so exciting I couldn't wait very long to update again. Thanks for all the support folks!**

John wiped away the blood dripping from his nose as he helped Mr. Alger from the ground.

"I arranged everything with my coworker; we're going to get you somewhere safe. Are you alright?"

"I'll live," he grunted as he brushed himself off.

"You should pack a bag full of anything you'll need for a while – clothes, toothbrush, basic necessities. We'll be able to get you whatever else you need after we make you disappear again."

"I'll do that – I'm eager to fall back off the grid," he grumbled, "could I ask a question first?"

"Shoot," John said with a nod.

"When you were asking me about how I came became disfigured, well, it doesn't matter how you knew about that – but how did you know I was in danger?"

"I have a nose for news," he shrugged.

"So be it, but I'm…well…"

"You're irrelevant," John said, "there is no news – and that's what I specialize in. I think this will all become clear later, but for now, you should get that bag."

"Right," he said slowly, giving John a funny look as he backed away.

Looking at the three large bodies on the floor, John straightened his bloody suit. They had caught him off guard when they came crashing in, but after his enlightening chat with Mr. Alger their purpose made more sense. Normally brawls took him mere moments to settle, but these men were trained. Pure bred killers.

"What the hell happened here?" Carter asked as she walked in, putting away the gun she had been holding at the ready.

"Hit for hire, sort of," John answered.

"Are they dead?" she asked as she nudged the arm of one of them.

"I'm not sure," John said honestly, "I think that one bit the dust, the other two might have a fighting chance."

She gave him a bit of a glare before bending down to delicately take their pulses.

"After you're clear I'll call it in," she said, "and I'll see what I can find out about them."

"I'm ready," Peter said as he calmly emerged from his bedroom.

John was caught off guard by how coolly he had handled the entire situation. The average person would have been at least a little disturbed by what unfolded, but Mr. Alger gave the impression he had seen worse.

"Alright," John curtly replied, "Carter, I'm going to take him to our getaway car then I'm coming back up. You want to stay here or come?"

"I'll stay, I'd like to take a better look at these guys."

_And you don't want to be near me, if you can help it._

"I'll be back shortly," John said, hiding his thoughts, as he escorted Mr. Alger out of the apartment. Thankfully there were elevators to get them to the bottom floor, so no walking was involved, but the trip from the ground floor to Grace's location was agonizing. He knew that the man with him was walking as fast as possible, and John tried not to get frustrated, but it was impossible. With danger literally around every corner all he wanted was to get him somewhere safe, fast.

"Hello, Grace," John said as he swung open the back door of Harold's car after their painfully slow arrival.

"Hi, John," she said with a small smile as she watched Peter climb in the back, "this is the man I'm escorting from danger?"

"This is him," John said, "he's harmless, so don't worry."

"I wasn't the worried one," she said, and he gave her a knowing glance.

"I'm sorry you're getting thrown into this," he said apologetically.

"Don't be – I'm glad to help," she said sincerely as he firmly closed the door behind Peter.

He stood and watched her drive away, wiping some sweat from his forehead, and he noticed Peter turn back and glance at him briefly.

_He had turned back for a brief instant in the cab. He had looked at her, wanted to get out and run to her, wanted to apologize to her._

_He had just kept riding, though._

_Another night had been spent on her couch after their fight, but he had made up his mind to leave in the morning. And he had._

_They had made up after their explosive argument, but it had mostly been bogus. It had been a way of reassuring they would stay in business related contact, but nothing more. They hadn't discussed why he had been so angry or she had been so defensive; it was just a basic exchange of 'sorry' with less emotion than two tree stumps. Neither of them had been content with it, but they lived with it._

_That's what they did with everything – they just lived with it._

John found himself dragging his feet all the way back to Alger's apartment. A lot had happened within the past hour, so much he hadn't had time to process it all yet. His focus was less than perfect, though; it had been fuzzy since he drove off the pier. On his ride up the elevator he found that even the dull background music humming through the small space interrupted his normally unbreakable thought pattern.

Letting a sigh escape his lips as he meandered down the hall toward the apartment, the sound of a man yelling suddenly broke the silence. Then a woman's cry.

Carter.

John took off running and was bursting through Alger's doorway in seconds. He arrived just in time to see a burly man put a foot in Carter's stomach as she gasped for air on the ground – that was all he needed to see.

Delivering a punch from the right to the perpetrator's face resulted in a sickening crunching noise, followed by a cry of agony when he received the crack in the left ribs. His face met John's knee as he crashed limp to the ground, and a boot print was left on his bloody face as Reese finished his work. Hauling off and slamming the guy in the stomach for good measure, he quickly turned his attention to Carter.

Kneeling down and scooping her into his arms, he did his best to comfort her as she gasped for air. She clung to his shoulders and coughed so hard it shook both of them, and he could read the fear on her face. Running a hand along her back soothingly, he relaxed a little as her cough slowly turned into a wheeze and her breathing recovered.

"Are you hurt badly?" he asked with concern.

"N-no," she said, her voice beginning to break, "I don't think so."

He looked into her eyes as tears began to seep out of them. She wasn't lying when she answered his question, he knew that. It was a different type of hurt showing now.

Closing his arms around her, he let her sob into his shoulder. Burying his face in her hair, he squeezed his eyes shut tight and inhaled deeply. For the first time in a while he felt peace ebb into his being, as if he was sucking it right out of her.

"I'm sorry, John," she whispered as her sobs became more controlled, "for what happened."

"You shouldn't be – I am," he answered softly, smoothing a hand across her back again.

"No, it was my –"

"Stop," he said firmly, "it was wrong of me to put you in that position. I'm a monster, a killer – you shouldn't even associate with me, never mind me kissing you."

She tilted her head so she could look into his eyes, then she wrapped a hand around the back of his neck and kissed him.

"You aren't a monster," she said softly as they broke apart, and she pressed her forehead to his, "and I wanted to be in that position. I was just…I was afraid. I was afraid of what I felt for you, and the consequences it would have."

"Why the change of heart?"

"Well, I'm also afraid of spiders, but that doesn't stop me from killing them – so why should I let fear stop me from loving you?" she said with a diminutive smile.

"I don't know, but it's the preferred alternative to killing me," he returned her smile and ran his fingers lightly across a bump he noticed developing on her forehead, "are you sure you're alright?"

"I'll be fine," she said, wrapping her hand around his, "tell me something – What do these men want to kill your mysteriously disfigured janitor for?"

"Oh, you could call it a twist in the plot," John said with a grimace.

"How so?" she asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Mr. Alger isn't exactly who he says he is."


	9. Chapter 9

**Important note: For the first time, I'm breaking the Finch, Reese, Finch, Reese, etc. pattern in my chapters. This one will be from the perspective of our cryptic person of interest…whose mystery may finally be revealed!**

He maintained a nervous silence as the woman John had referred to as Grace began to drive. Despite her amiable attitude when he was shoved in the car, he could tell she was wary to trust him. Who wouldn't be?

"So, what's your name?" she asked after a few minutes of the stillness.

"You can call me Peter," he said, "and you're Grace?"

"Correct," she said, looking in the mirror to give him a small smile, "how did you find yourself under the protection of John and company?"

"Well," he sighed, "I'm not entirely sure. It would certainly appear someone wants me dead."

"Been there, done that," she said with a chuckle as he let a surprised expression cross his badly scarred face.

Looking around him, he took note of the luxurious interior of the car. Everything was in pristine condition, and it even smelled new, although he got the feeling it wasn't. Noticing one imperfection, he leaned down and plucked a button that looked to be from an expensive suit cuff off the floor.

"I take it this isn't your car?" he asked as he examined it.

"Technically not, why?"

"Button on the floor," he said with a half-smile, "you don't look like the suit type."

"I'm not," she said with a grin, "but I'm sure whichever of my associates lost that will be happy you found it."

"The one John talks to on the phone, Finch is it? Is he the only other one?"

He felt a bit bad for prying, but his curiosity really was getting the better of him. Plus, he was already in a car with a strange woman taking him to an unknown location as killers hunted him. He probably couldn't make the situation worse.

"Yes," she said hesitantly, as if she wasn't sure what to share, "they have some friends on the police force as well."

"They aren't police, though," he said, "I got that vibe."

"No, but they're good men," she answered honestly.

"Do they get their intel from the police?" he asked, still puzzling over how John had found him.

"Sometimes," she said ambiguously, "when I asked a question similar to that, the only answer I got was 'a little birdy told me.' Don't count on too much enlightenment."

"You work with these men because you're indebted, then?" he asked, going out on a limb trying to piece the endless puzzle together.

"Oh, it's more by choice," she said, "they've helped plenty of people who never see them again."

"Does that mean you're secretly taking me to an obscure place where they are going to dump my body?" he said with a grin.

"Correct," she laughed, "you never should have gotten in the car."

"Where are we going? If you can answer, that is."

"Well that one isn't confidential – we're going to my apartment. It's not exactly one of their usual safe houses, so John must really trust you."

"Well," Peter said with a small shrug, "we had a little talk and he seems to. He didn't when he came charging in with a gun. Although most don't take it that far, people aren't generally inclined to trust someone who looks like he was sent through a paper shredder then lit on fire."

Grace kept quiet after that, and he almost felt bad for saying it. It was true, though. Everyone wanted a pretty face and a strong posture. He wondered if she was romantically involved with John. That could explain why she was helping him.

Soon after the talking ceased they were turning into a parking garage, located underneath a clean and somewhat regal looking apartment building. Whoever Grace was with had some serious funding, that was becoming clear. Unless it was just Grace – perhaps she was "Finch," the key to the whole operation, the rich one standing behind John.

"Do you live alone?" he asked as he awkwardly got out of the car.

"Yes," she answered with a nod, locking the car, "and between you and me, the apartment is much too spacious for my liking."

"Are you trying to come on to me?" he said, giving her a look to let her know he was kidding.

He could remember days when he didn't have to give a look to assure a woman he was kidding. Those were times before his hair was all gray and his frame was all bent and his face was all disfigured. Sometimes he wished he could go back to those times, and he thought of the weak efforts he made to grow closer to them. The dye in his hair that didn't really belong there – the jumping from job to meaningless job. Nothing he did brought him closer to the times when he had had a purpose. He couldn't find a new one.

As they moved into the building and toward an elevator, he became grateful for how slow she naturally walked. It was nothing like trying to keep up with John, and he wondered if the man ever became angry with her slow gait. Then again, she was probably adjusting her pace a little. She did it so fluently, though, it was like she practiced.

The apartment turned out to be just as spacious as she had mentioned. A wide foyer opened into a living space with impeccable décor and a scheme of bright colors that somehow all fit together perfectly.

"See what I mean? Roomy," she said with a smile as she threw her keys onto a table near the door.

Limping in and studying the space carefully, his eyes were drawn immediately to the paintings hanging on the walls. Each was unique and quite beautiful, and the layout of the room seemed to reflect everything he saw in them.

"Did you design the apartment yourself?" he said, the awe seeping through his words.

"No, I have a very good designer," she said with a chuckle, "I do the paintings myself, though."

"Really?" he asked with surprise, "they're fantastic – do you sell them?"

"Sometimes," she said with a nod, "I do art for magazines and things, but mostly it's just a hobby."

"Impressive hobby," he chuckled as he got closer to study one.

"Thank you," she said graciously as she kicked off her shoes, and he took note of how relaxed and open she seemed even though there was a complete stranger in her apartment.

_Could she really be the one behind John's earpiece?_

"You can make yourself at home, take a look around if you want – my studio is through there," she said as she began to pin up her hair, "I'm going to see what kind of food we have. I don't know about you, but I'm starving," she said with a big grin before moving toward a kitchen area.

He decided to make his way down the hall like she had permitted, and he began to wonder how the apartment didn't take up the entire floor of the building. Peeking his head through a door that was ajar, he quickly confirmed it was her studio. Paintings, some complete and some half-finished, were stacked helter-skelter across the left side of the room. Easels and brushes lined the yellow wall until they hit a wide window that faced the city. As he moved closer he noted how breathtaking the view outside was – plenty of inspiration for an artist. Turning to face the right side of the room was a bit more perplexing. A few finished paintings hung on the wall, but the primary focus was a cluster of computer monitors that seemed out of place. He wasn't sure what she would need them in the studio for, perhaps more inspiration. The only thing spotting the cluster of technology was a worn picture frame, and he limped over and picked it up.

It was still clenched between his shaky hands when he hobbled back into the main room, and he could hear Grace talking on her phone.

"Yes, I promise everything is fine – will you stop worrying? I'll call you when John gets here, OK?"

She noticed Peter reentering the room then, and gave him a smile.

"I'll talk to you later – bye," she put the phone down on the counter, "sorry about that."

"It's fine," he answered simply, "when was this picture taken?"

Noticing the picture frame in his hands, she seemed surprised for a moment but quickly answered to cover it.

"2009," she said.

Looking down at the picture he furrowed his brow; he had already stared at it for a long time.

"Who is it?" he asked.

"He was my fiancé," she said, but the sadness in her voice sounded forced.

A man with little circular spectacles and a wide smiled stared from the frame up at him, Grace kissing his cheek. He looked so happy.

"Was?"

"He was killed in an accident a few years ago," she answered, fidgeting uncomfortably with the phone she plucked off the counter.

"You're lying," he said with a laugh, shaking his head.

"What?" she said, taken aback.

"This is him, isn't it? This is the one John calls Finch."

"No," she said uncertainly, "no his name wasn't Finch, it was-"

"Harold," he finished, "his name was Harold – is Harold."

"How…" she began, looking at Peter with an expression caught somewhere between fear and shock.

"Is he Finch?" he asked, more forcefully this time.

With alarm in her eyes, Grace succumbed to the question.

"Yes, he is," she said reluctantly.

Moving closer to her, he set the picture frame gently on the counter next to her. He felt tears begin to slip from his eyes as he produced a wallet from his back pocket. She had shirked from him as if he was about to pull a knife on her, and he could feel the panic radiating from her. Not dialing that cell phone was taking a lot of restraint, and he appreciated her hesitancy to call for help.

"Does he still look like the picture, or does he look like me?" he asked sadly.

"He has new glasses," she said, shifting uncomfortably.

Peter let another laugh escape him as he looked down at the open wallet. A picture of a young brown haired boy standing next to a bespectacled man stared back at him. The boy was holding a high school diploma, and had his arm wrapped around the neck of the man who was laughing despite the awkward position he was being pulled into. A tear hit the plastic covering over the picture as Peter stared down at it thankfully.

"Are you alright, Peter?" Grace asked in a tone that was almost a whisper.

He looked up at her slowly, letting a grin spread across his mutated face.

"Yes," he said assuredly, "and please, call me Nathan."


	10. Chapter 10

"Finch," John said tentatively as he entered Harold's library lair.

Trying not to groan at the amount of hesitancy in John's voice – hesitancy usually meant trouble was afoot – he turned to face his friend.

"Now, let's just stay calm," Reese said with an outstretched hand and a weak half grin.

"What's happened? Is Grace alright?" Harold said, panic already sending his mind through the worst possible scenarios.

"She's fine, Harold, she's right outside. It's just, um, we sort of have a visitor."

"A _visitor_?" Harold hissed, "I'm not sure if you've noticed, John, but this isn't a public library. Where have you been for the past few hours? I couldn't even reach you or Grace – I've been worried sick, and –"

"Alright, mom, slow down. I've been off doing…research," John said thoughtfully, "and Grace has been entertaining our guest."

"Our – Oh, no. John, you didn't bring the number to the library. Please tell me you didn't."

"You brought a number to the library!"

"She was a baby!" Harold said, spreading his arms, "she had no idea where she was!"

"Well of course she didn't, you stole her," John said, raising his eyebrows and shrugging helplessly.

"I think that is far beside the point," Harold said with a glare.

"It doesn't matter anyway; he has no idea where he is either. You'll probably want to tell him, though -"

"_Tell him_?" Harold asked with astonishment, "You've really lost your mind this time, Mr. Reese. I never thought I'd see the day."

"Funny thing about those things you think you'll never see," John said, "they always manage to pop up."

"Delightfully cryptic," Harold said stiffly as the metal gate guarding his library creaked open.

"Hello, Harold," Grace said as she walked in, giving him a feeble smile as Mr. Alger limped beside her.

He gave her a curt nod and proceeded to eye Mr. Alger suspiciously, trying not to take note the man was doing the same to him.

"So you're Mr. Finch?" Alger asked after a long pause.

"Indeed," Finch replied, turning back to his computer monitor as if no one was in the room.

"How long have you used that name?" Alger continued.

"What does that mean?" Finch asked defensively.

"It means it isn't your real last name – you started using it after whatever left you with that stiff neck."

Feeling the hairs on his 'stiff neck' rise in anger, Finch rose to his feet and moved closer to him.

"Stiff leg, too," Peter said as he examined Finch's walk.

"I don't know you, and I don't know why my colleagues were foolishly impulsive enough to bring you here – but you don't know me," Finch asserted, "and you never will, Mr. Alger – or should I say Nichols."

"That was clever," Alger said with a smile, "but you've made a few mistakes there. First, you called your fiancé your colleague, which is just a plain awful decision. More importantly you wrongfully assumed I know nothing about you – but I do know a bit, Mr. Finch – or should I say Wren."

Harold felt his mouth drop open a little at the mention of the name he kept more closely guarded than any other. Fury was welling up in his chest again, liable to overflow and kill everyone in the room.

"I see you two had no problems giving away all of my secrets to this man," Harold said accusingly as he glared at Grace and John, "anything else he knows about me we want to get out of the way now?"

"Harold," Grace said softly, moving toward him as John backed away, "we haven't told him anything."

"Oh, right, we just happened upon my stalker," he said wryly.

"More of an admirer, really," Peter said with a shrug, "you still haven't guessed my name right, Mr. Wren."

"Do not call me that," Harold said firmly, "and I most certainly have unless you've stolen more identities in your time."

"I only stole one – a necessary one. I'm sure you understand the assets of necessary scapegoats."

"I'm not sure I understand much of anything at this point," Harold said, pointing the comment at John.

"You've always understood more than you pretended to," Mr. Alger said soberly, "haven't you? You may not admit it but I think you've got every person in this room, every person on this street, every person in this city figured out, just not me. And it isn't just because of your computers and your machine, my old friend – you always taught them how to behave."

Harold's brain was spinning and his eyes fluttered shut for an instant. If Grace had been honest and this man had been given no knowledge, then he had misinterpreted everything from square one. He knew about the machine, he knew Alicia Corwin, he knew Harold Wren. He knew what only one other man could have known.

"Mr. Ingram," Harold said softly, "I presume."

"Or maybe you still have me figured out after all," Nathan said with small smile.

Feeling Grace's hand run along his back, Finch waited for his heart to explode out of his chest. He didn't know what to do, what to say. His lifelong friend was back from the dead, standing right in front of him, but he hated him for it. He hated him for hiding, for pretending to be dead, for stealing that man's identity. He hated him for all the guilt he had suffered.

"What happened?" Harold managed to splutter out.

"Well, you were in the car," Nathan began.

"After that, I mean," Harold said, "I thought you were dead."

"And I thought you were dead, so maybe I should be asking the same."

"What?" Harold asked, "How? I kept running the company, I kept in contact with Will…"

"Alicia arranged it," Nathan said, "after the accident I woke up in a hospital and she was there. She told me you had died, and that everyone would believe I died. I had to lay low, take low profile jobs, make a new life out of thin air. We sort of, uh, took a life in a sense. I was told to fall off the radar or really be killed – so that's what I did. It wasn't too hard with the physical damage the accident left."

"But you…" Harold searched desperately for words, "you had a _funeral_."

"You didn't?" Nathan asked unashamedly.

"Well, sort of, but," Harold said, his voice breaking a little, "I _saw_ you. And your son, he thinks you're dead. You could have-"

"Harold," Nathan said quietly, "we both know there was nothing to be done. You hid from your fiancé, didn't you? We had no options."

"We could have found each other."

"We have," Nathan said pointedly, "and you're stuttering like a fool through it. Shouldn't you be used to people coming back from the dead by now?"

"You never quite get used to that," Harold said with a sigh.

Grace was still standing next to him, but John had exited the room at some point. Rubbing his shoulder, she gave him a nod to excuse herself as well. He let her go without protest, but he didn't know if he wanted to be alone with Nathan. It had been so long. He didn't know what to do.

"You look good, Harold," he said after they stood awkwardly for a bit.

"You look pretty awful," Harold said with a grin.

"You've even picked up some charm," Nathan said as he limped around, examining Harold's monitors and the wall of numbers.

"The contingency you built," Harold mumbled, "it's allowed us to save lives. Many lives."

"Not these, though," Nathan said, pointing at the wall.

"No," Harold answered bitterly, "not those."

"I always knew you cared about them, even if you acted detached."

"It ate away at me every day," Harold said with a shudder, "I had to do something."

"John is how you protect them, the ones like me," Nathan said with a nod, "he seems like a good guy."

"He is. He's a good friend."

"Could I ask you a question, Harold?" Nathan asked as he traced red lines with his finger.

"Of course."

"When did you meet her?" he asked, straightening up the best he could, "Grace, that is."

"In January, 2006. She was in the park."

"She was the one from all that time ago. Why didn't you tell me more about her, how serious you were?" Nathan asked, some injury in his voice.

"I…" Harold began, searching for words.

"You didn't trust me," Nathan finished for him.

"No, no," Harold said, fixing his tie uncomfortably, "it's not that I didn't trust you. I just didn't know how to tell you. Like I didn't know how to tell her about you, or about what I did for a living. My life is built on lies; I've never been able to change that."

"Lying has its perks until you begin lying to yourself, Harold," Nathan said, running his finger along a picture.

"Don't talk as if you're still in a position to lecture me," Harold said spitefully, "I'm the one who has held everything together as you've been hiding away. I've taken care of your son, all the numbers, everything."

"I know," Nathan said with a lopsided nod, "and I'm thankful for that. Alicia didn't know about you, though. She thought I was losing the employee driving me around, not my best friend. There was no reason for her to speculate about whether or not you lived, and no reason for me not to trust her."

Harold shrugged in agreement, looking at his feet.

"I only would have slowed you down if I was here, Harold," Nathan said, walking closer to him, "you only needed me for correspondence with the rest of the world, not your machines."

Harold was still looking at his shoes when Nathan brushed passed him and went out the doorway.

"I needed a friend, too," Harold quietly said to his feet.


End file.
